


Fights

by AnaGP



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Happy Ending, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaGP/pseuds/AnaGP
Summary: Sherlock endures the most painful moments of his life in stony silence.





	Fights

**Author's Note:**

> The words in itallics are from Charles Bukowski's 'The Nights you Fight Best', it can be found here: https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/409606-the-nights-you-fight-best-are-when-all-the-weapons
> 
> Ah, I've been struggling lately. (What the hell was that about? Too many wounds too count, my lovelies.) I'm on hour 18 (maybe 20?) of no sleep and my monsters are coming out to play, as they do. 
> 
> Please stay safe, my loves.

_The nights you fight best are when all the weapons are pointed at you_

_when all the voices hurl their insults, while the dream is being strangled._

 

Sherlock screams. He is young and terrified, his brain works at a thousand thoughts per broken sob and he won't stop running because he can't. He hides in textbook definitions of sociopathies and in cold case-files, he explores the tenderness of his broken soul on an early morning after 20 hours without rest and does not shatter. He puts a razor against his skin and presses down, pulls. The blood takes a moment to surge forward, it always does, and suddenly- suddenly he is dripping red and he feels glorious. He might have lost a battle with himself but he is still breathing without heroine in his veins and for him, it's enough. Later, when the lazy morning light floods his bedroom, he may come to regret this-he doesn't- but for now the high is good enough to take the pain away and it's all he's ever wanted, really.  
  
His mind is a forest and even with Mycroft's help he won't make it manageable enough until after his first overdose, when he's much too exhausted to hold the flood of information back and all he wants is some blessed silence. If only he could find a way to make the silence last...  
  
Sherlock laughs and presses the razor down, again and again until his arms are a tattered pattern of sleepless nights and self-loathing. He does not seek redemption because it does not exist, at least not for him. Angels don't exist, have never existed and even if they did, they would much quicker send him to hell than offer him any kind of redemption.

 

_The nights you fight best are when reason gets kicked in the gut,_

_when the charriots of gloom encircle you._

 

Sherlock stumbles to the ground with the grace of a headless chicken. His split lip bleeds profusely and he can't find it in himself to care. He stands back up, faces the man in the ring and attacks. When Sherlock is alone, he is a force of nature, but here, surrounded by stimuli, he is stunned, a little lost, a little bit more broken than usual.

If there truly exists something beyond repair, Sherlock has been it. He's been down the rabbit hole so many times it's no longer funny. He pulls himself to his feet time and time again by mere force of will. He's proud and reckless, lonely and lost in ways he does not need to understand. He is much too raw, too jaded to be of use to anyone but himself. On his best days he calls himself useful, the rest of the time he tears his skin to shreds and pretends the air he breathes is arsenic.

 

_The nights you fight best are when the laughter of fools fills the air,_

_when the kiss of death is mistaken for love._

 

John brings air into his dying lungs. Sherlock coughs up anxieties and fears, the rope around his neck loosens and he is finally able to breath. Every word John utters is a blessing, every gaze sent his way is salvation. John finds the razors and Sherlock does not put up a fight when the good doctor throws them away. The detective's arms are wrapped in gauze and tenderly coated in healing cream.

His happiness is torn away from him by his mortal enemy. Ah, not Moriarty, no. Love, more like. Moriarty is mortal and Sherlock can deal with mortals, has spent his whole life learning their motivations and fighting the evil within them. Sherlock loves John, dies for him, fights for him, earns scars on his back to match those on his wrists and comes back from hell with a gaping wound where his happiness used to be. He yearns for the soothing balm of John's kindness and finds him with another woman. Sherlock goes to his brother and allows his archenemy to change the gauze covering his back and falls asleep to Mycroft's voice reading Treasure Island. The next morning he moves back into 221B, pays Billy to move John's chair upstairs and locks the second bedroom up for good.

He goes back to the boxing ring of his youth, gets thrown around like a rag doll after months of mal-nutrition and sleep-deprivation and he manages to tear open all the stitches on his back. Molly frowns at him but is silent as she stitches him back up.

 

_The nights you fight best are on a night like this,_

_as you chase a thousand dark rats from your brain,_

 

Sherlock endures the most painful moments of his life in stony silence. He watches John marry a woman who loves him and composes a song for their dance. He goes straight to the ring after escaping the wedding, he earns himself a broken wirst, a bloody lip and £300 before Mycroft himself pulls him out of the stingy place by force and brings him back to 221B. His older brother sits him down and presses a cup of boiling hot coffee to his shaking palms. His once-pristine suit is ruined, there is dried blood on his white shirt and Sherlock stares blankly at his cup as if it could magically turn back time and bring John back to him. Mycroft has discarded his jacket and waistcoat and is sitting across from him with his sleeves rolled up and three buttons undone and Sherlock, who has never been able to erase his hero complex on Myc, takes a sip from his coffee as his whole frame shakes and he dissolves in tears.

Time passes, Sherlock shakes with the strength it takes to keep himself together. John mourns. John's daughter calls him sweet names and he does not shatter like he thought he would, once upon a time. Molly stitches him up after every fight and Sherlock reads Treasure Island to Rosie. Mrs. Hudson brings up teacakes and pats his head, calls him her boy and Mycroft still drags him home from fights when Sherlock gets too caught up in his hell.  John mourns, sleeps on the couch, eats takeaway and smiles when Rosie calls Sherlock 'papa'.

 

_as you rise up against the impossible,_

 

"Sherlock."

"John."

They meet again, like it's the first time, as if they do not have a dozen enemies at their backs and darkness sourrounding them both.

John steps forward, brings a hand to Sherlock's face, kisses him gently, minding the detective's busted lip. Sherlock smiles in the kiss and knows he would go through it all again if he would get to hold John Watson like this.

 

_as you become a brother to the tender sister of joy,_

_and move on_

_regardless._


End file.
